


the sun will rise (and we will try again)

by jynersq



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: F/M, Fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-09
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 13:39:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,925
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4102951
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jynersq/pseuds/jynersq
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Fitz and Simmons finally have their talk, after Fitz returns from the mission. But not before Simmons accidentally falls asleep on his bed waiting up for him.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the sun will rise (and we will try again)

**Author's Note:**

> I wrote this little thing because I really kind of just wanted to see that moment where they finally speak to one another about what happened in the pod? I'm not really sure if this qualifies as AU or not, since we didn't get to see what happened right after Fitz got back, so this can pretty much be read however you please!
> 
> Thanks to my super rad sis Juliana ([owlvsdove](archiveofourown.org/users/owlvsdove/pseuds/owlvsdove)) for being beta-ing!

She’s waiting up for him when he gets back.

Or, that had evidently been the plan at one point, Fitz assumes, after entering his own room to find Jemma asleep across the bed. 

He cracks the door open —slowly, because the doors creak rather loudly and it’s close to two in the morning— expecting to basically fall into bed. Instead, he finds her curled up on top of his covers, snoring softly. The lights are still on, and she’s still in her day clothes and shoes.

She must’ve gotten off work and headed there to wait for him, meaning to make good on her intentions to talk, and had ended up crashing instead.

He can’t really blame her. It’s no secret that pretty much everyone on base has been running on caffeine fumes for days, but the science division especially had been short-staffed as of late. She was no complainer by any means, but that he’d had to stop her from shaking salt into her tea instead of sugar a few mornings back had told him as much.

Lying on her side in the middle of the mattress like she’d just tipped over, she’s a sight, hair spread around her face like a short, messy halo. Mouth half-open, chest rising and falling gently. One side of his mouth turns up. She’d fallen asleep waiting for him.

She rustles a little in her sleep, breaking the spell. He shakes his head at himself, dropping his backpack on the floor of his room as quietly as possible. Reaching over to his dresser, he grabs the nearest change of clothes, flicking the bedside lamp off on the way back.

He notes, with some personal satisfaction, that his hands have been much more prompt about obeying him as of late. He’d been improving on his own, working in the lab, to be sure, but he’d also been undoubtedly aided by the events of a few weeks before, when Jemma had appeared in the doorway to the garage in the middle of the afternoon, a folded paper covered in neatly-written hand exercises in her own hands. 

_“Because I didn’t get to before,”_ she’d said, all in a rush.

He hadn't really known what to say, but he's taken them anyway. 

And she’d been right. He makes a mental note to thank her for that. Well, later.

He crosses the hall to change, carefully shutting his bedroom door behind him.

In the shower, as he scrubs the soap over himself, he can’t help but notice that, under his few new bruises, the typical softness in his shoulders and arms has given way to a little more definition in the months since his return to the field. A year ago, he would’ve been thrilled. Now, not only is it yet another reminder of just how much has changed, but of how much has been necessary to adapt to the change inside and outside himself, and what will continue to be required of him in the months and years to come.

He studies his face in the bathroom mirror as he brushes his teeth. Hair damp and askew, the faint stubble on his cheeks that’s kept him company since Jemma left for HYDRA and his hands, when his hands were still unmanageable. There’s really no reason not to shave, except that some small part of him thinks he might not even recognize himself anymore without it. 

He takes his time in the bathroom, and tells himself it’s because he’s tired and moving slow, instead of a growing apprehension about going back to his room to find Jemma still asleep in his bed.

He’d had to push her far from his mind in order to manage the mission, had no time to ruminate on exactly what she’d meant while fighting off Gordon and later, managing Coulson’s arm— but he has no other immediate distraction, now. He’d only managed to keep some semblance of composure during the mission by refusing to let his mind wander to what she said— tried to say, really— to him before he left. Going back to his room means going back to Jemma. Jemma, who might or might not be— well.

_I just saw Hunter with Bobbi and it made me realize that... It's just that, we never really spoke about what you said to me at the bottom of the ocean._

He shakes his head when he realizes he’s just standing there with the toothbrush still in his mouth. 

_Maybe there is._

He spits into the sink. After wiping his mouth and rising the brush, he braces his arms on the sink rim, staring without seeing into the mirror.

Eventually, he pads back across the hall, with no more answers than he had before, and several more questions.

Somehow, though, his concerns momentarily fade upon seeing her sleeping face. She stirs when the light from the hall spills in, but doesn't fully wake.

He pulls off her shoes so she won't be uncomfortable, then pulls the covers over her. She curls into it with a small, contented noise, and he can't help but smile. He harkens back to all the weeks of final exams at the academy, when she'd crash at his dorm, exactly like this, in the bed or on the floor. Different, and the same. 

After a moment of hesitation, he climbs in after her. He's not too keen on sleeping on the hard floor, and he knows she won't mind. He stays on top of the covers, though. 

“Hmm. Fitz?” she hums, sleepily, feeling him slide in beside her. She attempts to struggle into what could be considered an upright position, but he nudges her back down, readjusting the covers over her.

“Go back to sleep, Jem,” he says, biting his lip to hide a smile. "We'll talk tomorrow."

She mumbles something, dropping her head back to the pillow. She squirms under the blanket, readjusting, making herself comfortable, then goes still. He can just barely feel the warmth of her shoulder against his own.

"Okay. Good," he murmurs, more to himself than her. His own eyes growing heavy, 

And just like that, he's asleep.

—

Somewhere around four, he wakes up a little too warm, wakes up to find her pressed against his back, head tipped into his shoulder from behind. He can’t help but think how perfectly she fits there.

—

He's not proud of it, but the first he thinks about when he wakes is how sore he is. His entire body is one extended sore spot, every muscle protesting when he rolls to the side to check the time. It's like this after almost every mission, but he still really hasn't been back in the field long enough to be used to it.

The last thing is that the space beside him is mussed and empty, and Jemma is nowhere to be seen.

His heart sinks. Her shoes have been moved neatly by the wall, but that's the only sign that she been there at all. She's always been an early riser, and he knows it's a lot to ask— but some small part of him had thought she would stay.

He scrubs a hand over his face with a sigh.

Then, the door slides open. She pokes her head in carefully, smiling when she sees he's awake.

He cranes his neck to see the clock on the dresser. _11:49._

"Shite." He grimaces, rubbing at the back of his neck. No wonder she'd gone for breakfast without him.

She just smiles. "You were down for the count." She inclines her head. "Scoot over."

He moves over to make room on the narrow bed for her to sit up next to him against the headboard.

"Figured you'd be hungry," she says, passing him the plate. His stomach growls, embarrassingly loudly, right on cue. "Brought you a bagel," she says, gesturing needlessly. "And someone made bacon, too, so."

"You know you're the best, right?" he says, staring at her, slack-jawed. "As in, the actual best?"

She grins. "I know."

They spend the next few minutes in easy silence; he, trying and mostly failing to eat quietly, she, tapping her fingers absently on her knees and watching the clouds move outside the window.

“So, um,” he says, finishing the last strip of bacon, reaching around her to replace the plate on the bedside table. “Sleep okay?”

"Great, actually," she says, with a little smile.

"You looked pretty tired," he says.

She nods. Then,

"Also, er. I'm sorry for falling asleep on you last night. I mean— not on you—" She flushes. "I really meant to stay up—”

“Don’t worry about it,” he says. "It was, um." Adorable. “It was nice of you to wait up.”

She hums a little, looking down at her hands. It occurs to him just how close they are on the mattress.

They've shared a bed plenty of times, but this morning feels strangely delicate, almost painted, like the small china figurines Fitz had been under strict orders from his mother not to touch as a child. He wants to hold this moment, turn it over in his hands, but after everything he still isn’t used to tip-toeing around Jemma and this moment feels as though it could be easily dropped. 

"We should probably talk about the elephant in the room,” Jemma says, then, all in a rush. “And I realize it’s, this is, well, a bit of an odd place to have this conversation, but, all right.” She looks to him. "We should do this now, right? Should we do this now?"

“Now’s fine, Jem," he says.

She nods, brow furrowing.

Really, he's no more looking forward to this than she is, even with what she'd said to him before he'd left the night before. For months, he'd been chomping at the bit to say something, just to talk to her, explain why he'd done and said what he had— but, now, the last thing he wants to do is reopen old wounds.

She’s always been reserved, the past year more than ever, for obvious reasons. He’s practically desperate to know what’s going on inside her head, but, at the same time, he’s almost afraid to know. His chest is unbelievably tight. 

When she finally speaks, her voice is far away.

“I didn’t know what to do with what you said to me in the pod for a while," she begins, slowly. He'd known this was coming, but his heart still settles in a place somewhere around his stomach. 

"You have to understand, Fitz, you took me completely by surprise—” She shakes her head. “And not necessarily in a bad way, outside of our immediate circumstances, but— I'd never really thought about it before. Hadn’t thought about _you_ that way. And, of course, I hardly had time to think about it when you were— in the coma.” She grimaces around the word. “For a while there, it was so touch and go, and I didn't even know if you'd— If I'd ever speak you again, much less—" She waves her hands in an indeterminate gesture clearing the lump in her throat. "And then, later on, when I was at HYDRA, I couldn't afford to think about it."

"Hey, I know, Jem," he says, leaning closer to look her in the eye. "You don't— you're not obligated to defend yourself to me."

She shakes her head. "I'm not. I know I'm rambling, I just wanted you to know, er," Her eyes dart down. "The process, so to speak."

"Oh," he says. "Okay."

"Anyway, when I came back here," she continues, "I don't know. It was so different from before. We were at such odds, that I— It didn’t matter what I wanted at that point. I couldn't even consider it a possibility. Not until recently, anyway. And then, we were finally getting along again, and I was sure I couldn't risk that."

"I shouldn't have been so hard on you," he murmurs.

She doesn't reply. Just reaches out a little hesitantly for his hand, taking it but not holding it, just running her fingers over the lines on his palm like they could tell her where he’s going or where she’s coming from.

He watches her steadily, waiting for her to go on, afraid of missing even one tiny micro-expression, one small gesture or word that could lead him to a radically confused understanding of what she’s trying to say.

“And, yesterday, well.” She smiles a little humorless smile. “I saw Hunter with Bobbi in the lab, standing next to her when she was unconscious, and I thought— it just brought me right back to when it was _you,_ and I.” He can see her throat work as she swallows. “You don’t understand, you were so— pale and still, and I was so useless, couldn’t do anything.” She gives a little self-deprecating laugh. “Well, I was looking at Hunter and Bobbi, and something just… clicked, in my head. You understand?”

He simply nods, still trying to process everything she’s just said. For a moment, he thinks back to his own day, over a year ago, when Coulson told him about the cellist and it had caused him to recognize, perhaps for the first time, that what he felt for his best friend wasn't strictly platonic. 

It seems a lifetime ago, now.

He looks down, the tips of his ears burning. "Er, yeah. Think so."

She smiles faintly. She lifts her hand to his cheek.

Her fingers are cool, and he leans into it, eyes flickering briefly shut in pleasure. She moves her hand to his temple, slowly, down his face, just because she can. Then, to his jaw. The barest hint of stubble catches on her fingertips.

Eyes still shut, he feels her lips cautiously brush his cheekbone. Then, his cheek. Then, the corner of his mouth.

He opens his eyes. His heart does a funny little thump when he sees her own eyes are still open, just inches from his own.

And then she leans in and kisses him.

She's impossibly soft against his mouth, softer than he could've imagined. And neither of them moves for a moment; they pause where it's soft, and still, and her lips are steady and warm and her hands are cool on his cheek.

He could've stayed right there for the rest of his life, but after a moment she tilts her head to graze his bottom lip with his teeth, causing him to release a soft sigh. 

His hands come up on their own to rest at her waist, finding a little stripe of warm skin there between her jeans and shirt, and she makes a little noise in the back of her throat.

Technically, it isn't their first kiss. But it's the first one that matters. It's the first one that they mean, and that means something beyond eighteen-years-old and spin-the-bottle.

She pulls back slightly, nudging her forehead into his. He sighs.

"I thought you were going to kiss me, before," she whispers. "In the store room."

He blinks several times, blood rushing to his face. 

"Um. I think I might have, actually," he says. "If we hadn't been interrupted."

A slow smile spreads across her face. 

"Well, good."

He barely hears it, though. He feels a little dazed, with her so close to him.

“So, just to be clear. You’re— you're in—” His neck and ears are on fire, and he can’t find the right words to describe what he means without assuming too much. Mostly he gestures and hopes she’ll understand what he’s trying to ask. “—with me?”

"Looks that way." Jemma smiles. And then she kisses him again, fond and fast. 

"Okay," he whispers, pulling back. "That's, um. Great."

She opens her mouth to reply, but then his stomach growls again. It dissolves a little bit of the nervous energy.

She lets out a very uncharacteristic giggle.

"Already?" she asks.

"And, the moment's ruined," he says, with a sigh.

"Oh, were we having a moment?" she asks. "Is that what that was?"

He frowns. She just beams at him.

"You're a bottomless pit." She pats his cheek fondly. "You really are."

He makes a noncommittal noise. 

"We should probably get back out there, anyway," she says, with a little sigh. "Coulson probably needs us. A lot going on." She reaches over to her phone on the dresser to check her messages. Nine texts, all from Skye, he reads over her shoulder. She grimaces. "No rest for the weary, I suppose. Come on, let's see what we can scrounge up," she says."

"We'll continue this later, though, right?" he asks, hopefully.

"Oh, most definitely," she assures him. "We will most definitely be revisiting this later."

She climbs off the bed, keeping hold of his hand. He clambers off after, goosebumps tickling his skin at the feel of her palm on his, warm and sturdy and sure.

Just like all of her, really. Warm, sturdy, and sure.

As she reaches the door, she turns back to him, flashes him a quick, bright grin. He smiles back, and she turns back around.

Her hair swings into his shoulder, drifting a little of her clean, soft scent at him, and, just like that, it occurs to him that she is it for him. Even if he isn't it for her. She is it for him. And he's more than okay with that.

He squeezes her hand once, just because he can. Then, he simply reaches behind him to shut the door, and follows her out.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! As always, commentary and constructive criticism are very much appreciated, if you can spare the time. ♥ (I mean, please be nice, though!)


End file.
